O Brother
by woodbyne
Summary: "It's okay. I love you best of all. I love your chicken wings and your pork chop thighs and your marshmallow tummy and your chipmunk cheeks. No one loves you the way I do, and that's okay, because I'm here." 1p2p America 1p2p Canada focus on the Americas. High school AU.


The ceiling soared far above Alfred's head, filled with late afternoon quiet. Dust motes danced in heavy, golden light and through the peacock's tail of stained glass. Quietly, he clasped his hands, a rosary digging into his palms and the stone floor beneath his knees was warm where he had been kneeling. There were pews, but he had always felt more comfortable praying on his knees, perhaps to show added respect as he begged forgiveness for his blatant flagellation of His laws.

It was so horribly, horribly wrong. Alfred knew that. He knew it was wrong. And even though he knew he was going to Hell, he couldn't seem to stop the desire that scorched at every nerve he possessed. Worse still, he didn't want it to stop.

Maybe it was because Tommy was bad. Thoroughly, entirely, utterly, rotten-to-the-core _bad_. Well, not entirely. He was good to Alfred. He was a good brother. Where other's laughed snidely at Alfred for being overweight, scorned him for his devotion to his faith, teased him for his glasses, Tommy was kind. Tommy picked him up, Tommy put him back on his feet. Physically, Alfred probably could have hit his oppressors for six any day of the week, but that wasn't what he wanted. Alfred was passive. Alfred advocated peace with every other breath. Tommy… Tommy did not. Lacking in his twin's protective layer of fat, Tommy consisted of lean muscles and scar tissue. Fuelled by a strange combination of tofu and rage, he moved through life like a hurricane; carving a path of total destruction as he went.

Alfred existed in the eye of that storm. He existed in Tommy's chaos, but was not of it. Tommy protected him from the cruelty and pain of the outside world, and as the blond twin became the axis of the dark twin's world, so too did Tommy become Alfred's everything.

~====o)0(o====~

"_Here, piggy, piggy, piggy_!" children had sung on the playground, pulling their noses up into grotesquely swinish snouts, grunting and squealing as they imagined pigs might.

Alfred had cowered, shoulders hunched and head ducked as he tried to make himself seem smaller. Small enough to hide, small enough to escape, small enough to not be noticed. Small enough to not be a pig.

Tommy had arrived on the scene like an avenging angel – or, as Alfred came to think of him in later years, a blessed demon – his dark fists flew, dealing split lips and blacked eyes indiscriminately, and his brother's aggressors were laid low.

That was the first time Tommy got suspended.

The teasing had been so much worse that week; a half dozen eight-year-olds nursed their bruises and their grudges, passing cruel, barbed comments in the corridors, leaving pins on his chair. Rude notes appeared in his locker, graffiti appeared on his desk and through it all Alfred appeared not to notice. But once he was safely home and in his shared room, he would curl up on his bed and let tears as hurt and fat as he was roll down his chubby cheeks.

The bed would sink, he remembered, and a thin, brown arm would draw him against the fever heat of Tommy's chest. The dark-haired twin would sing to him, wiping away his tears and promising vengeance on all who threatened his brother.

~====o)0(o====~

At age ten, it had been no different. Alfred had discovered his faith. He was starry-eyed with the concept of Catholicism, deciding then and there in Religious Studies that he was going to be a Catholic. He got hate-mail for that, too. Jesus-freak, bible-basher, narrow-minded, bigot, ignorant. He wasn't as out-and out tubby as he had been, but he was still large enough to feel body shy and to be poked fun at.

Tommy didn't buy into Christianity the same way that Alfred did, but he didn't seem to mind anything that made his twin happy, and he never batted an eyelid at the nay-Sayers, flippantly branding them Satanists and devil-worshippers.

That got him sent to the principal's office.

~====o)0(o====~

Middle school wasn't much better, there was more teasing, more cruelty as the children shuffled themselves into the hierarchy of adolescence as though they were a pack of cards. Tommy was higher up in the deck then Alfred; his not-taking-any-of-your-bullshit-no-thank-you attitude making him feared and respected, whereas the blond brother was viewed almost as Quasimodo; a kindly but unsightly stain on their society.

The day before high school began, Alfred was inconsolable. He locked Tommy out of their room and he sobbed himself to sleep on the covers of his bed. At five in the evening, he was awoken by an almighty bang, and there stood Tommy, leaning heavily on his left leg, and nursing the right. The lock on their door was broken.

"That's harder than they make it look on TV," he complained, limping over to sit next to his brother and pulling him once more into the too-hot circle of his arms, "What's the matter, porkchop?" the nickname was a throwback to a pre-primary school production of the food groups, where Alfred had been part of the meat group and thus stuffed into a giant, canvas pork chop.

"I don't think I can take another four years of this," he had sniffled. And Tommy, in all his fourteen-year-old wisdom, pressed his lips to Alfred's hair and mumbled,

"It's okay. I love you best of all. I love your chicken wings and your pork chop thighs and your marshmallow tummy and your chipmunk cheeks. No one loves you the way I do, and that's okay, because I'm here."

"Love you, too, Tommy," the blond boy muttered.

"And if anyone tries anything, I will kick the shit so far out of their ass that they'll be cleaning it off the wall in three weeks' time," his brother said matter-of-factly, ruffling blond locks as though nothing was amiss.

"Tommy," Alfred chided him, "That's rude. You've got to put a dollar in the swear-jar."

"Yeah, yeah. How about I just buy you an ice cream instead?" it was a fair compromise.

"Fine, but you have to sing me a song, too," Alfred may have been tubby, but he was also smart. He knew exactly how much he could push for with a dollar.

Rolling his eyes, Tommy drew breath, launching straight into the chorus of I Whistle A Happy Tune, "I whistle a happy tune, And ev'ry single time, The happiness in the tune Convinces me that I'm not afraid. Make believe you're brave And the trick will take you far. You may be as brave as you make believe you are."

"You should go in for choir," the blond said, tugging at his brother's fringe.

"Choir's for pussies," Tommy said immediately.

"Tommy…"

"Yeah, yeah. Two ice creams?"

~====o)0(o====~

High school worked out pretty well for Alfred. Not so much for Tommy. The number of fights he got into escalated exponentially. He lost a tooth in the first week there, and it didn't get much better. After only a month, he brought a flick knife to school and, because it had been discovered when he drew it on another student, he got sent to An Institution. A place where young men could learn the error of their ways under strict, militaristic observation. Their parents called it a Reformatory. Alfred looked the word up, paling when he saw the synonyms listed as: Jail, Gaol, Prison and Penitentiary.

The blond, on the other hand, was racing ahead of his peers in science and mathematics, achieving smiles and awards from his teachers and admiration from the other students, who clustered around him, begging him to explain the latest formula in algebra or trigonometry. He discovered that he liked public speaking, and joined the debate team, winning them a state title, earning Best Speaker at the national competition, but only coming fourth overall.

They weren't supposed to visit, but Tommy called home twice a week to let everyone know how he was doing. He was never that interested in talking to his parents. It almost seemed as though he practised speaking fast so that he could give them each a run-down of three or four days in two minutes or less.

With Alfred, it was the exact opposite. They sent letters and emails and exchanged the most trivial details about their days, from the blue butterfly Tommy had seen during PT to the schmutz of dirt on Alfred's glasses that made it look like he was underwater. Alfred changed schools for junior year, and Tommy joined the Reformatory choir. The very next week, he received a book of sheet music; all the scores of his favourite musicals, bound in a plain cover.

"I miss you, Tommy," Alfred lamented into the receiver, sitting upside-down in an arm chair, his head hanging off the seat.

"I miss you, too, porkchop," Tommy sighed, breath gusting in a rush of static through to his brother's ear, "But GI Joe," the incarcerated twin's nickname for his warden, "Says that if I behave myself then I can have my senior year breathing the sweet air of freedom."

"Really?! Tommy, please, please, please be good? You can come to school with me, everyone's nice here, I promise! There's a musical you can join! Please?" the blond brother tripped over his words in an effort to get them all out at once in his excitement.

"I suddenly have this urge to do bad things," his twin groaned, but, anticipating the pathetic pout that was surely on Alfred's lips, he relented, "Okay, fine, porkchop. Whatever you say. I'll try out for the musical. I'll be good."

~====o)0(o====~

"Jones, Thomas Roosevelt," announced a rusting loud-hailer that belonged on the other side of World War One. Gates and bars clanged open, echoing along the cool cement and white-wash halls.

Without any further pomp or circumstance Jones, Thomas Roosevelt appeared, a guard at his shoulder and a box in his hands that had a jumble of letters and a plain-bound, dog-eared book poking out of the open top. He looked a little more gaunt than the last time Alfred had seen him. Older, too. Tommy had gotten taller, still as lean and wiry, but broader as well. His shoulders had filled out even if his missing tooth hadn't. But that was to be expected, what with three years having passed between that moment and their last encounter.

"Sir, could you sign this, please? And I'll need to see some ID." The guard handed him a clipboard, and Alfred realised that he had been staring in open mouthed shock. Shutting his pie-hole, the blond twin scrambled for his driver's licence and scribbled a large, block signature on the paper he was presented with.

After that, they were shuffled out of the building with the same parade-ground efficiency that the place seemed to be run with. Alfred constantly turned to glance at his brother. He'd volunteered to pick him up so that their parents wouldn't have to miss work. He'd never been more grateful for summer break.

They didn't say a word to each other until they were in the car together.

"Porkchop, where did all of you _go_?" Tommy sounded confused.

"This little piggy went to the gym," Alfred laughed. His glasses suited him more now, he too was taller, broader, but not lean the way his brother was. He was still soft, just not obviously fat.

"Aw, you were cute chubby," the brunet complained without feeling.

"I still have pork chop thighs," the blond offered up by way of apology, laughing a little. He was more confident now, and it worked well for him, but Tommy just knew he was going to miss the days when Alfred would curl up to his side and beg him to sing him to sleep.

"And a marshmallow tummy?" he tried hopefully.

"Yup, see?" Alfred tugged up the hem of his loose tee shirt. Sure enough, though there wasn't as much of it as there had been, there was still a softness to his belly, a slight overhang to his jeans, "I'm never going to be fit like you, but that's okay, I guess. So long as.." he trailed off, letting the shirt fall and going red and shaking his head, "Never mind."

"So long as _what_, porkchop?"

"_Nothing_! Agh, dff- damnit!" he muttered, trying to shove the keys in the ignition and only succeeding in dropping them to the floor. Bending double, he managed to rescue them, but when he sat up again, Tommy was right in his face.

"I learnt some pretty nifty interrogation techniques from GI Joe," the brunet said quietly, his eyes so close that Alfred could see the filaments of muscle that made his pupil dilate. He'd always liked Tommy's eyes; they were a shade of brown so warm that they could almost be red, "Tell me and I'll show you them."

"Dude, seriously, it's _nothing_. Just drop it," Alfred looked straight ahead, staring at the road beneath the tires as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed off down the lonely single lane that connected the Young Men's Reformatory to the outside world.

"Alfred," the blond almost crashed the car. It had been _years_, over a decade, since Tommy had called him so much as _Al_, let alone _Alfred_.

"Yes, _Thomas_?"

"Pull over," there was something quiet about Tommy's voice that was just a little too soft for him, just a little too relenting, even for when he spoke to Alfred.

Obediently, the beat-up old four-door saloon was guided to the shoulder of the road and turned off. They were only quarter of the way home, and it didn't really seem like the brunet needed to take a piss, so Alfred was seriously ill at ease when he looked at his brother.

"Tommy?" Tommy appeared to be wrestling with his facial expression, struggling to make it make sense in the way it usually was, the way he felt it should be and the way he wanted it to be – all very different things.

"We've been together our whole lives," the brunet twin said, looking down at the perforated vinyl seat, "Porkchop, don't shut me out now."

It literally didn't take three seconds for Alfred to undo his seatbelt and fling himself across the seat, colliding with Tommy's midriff.

"As long as you love my marshmallow tummy and my pork chop thighs, I'll be okay," the blond mumbled into his brother's ribcage, voice muffled and barely discernable, but somehow still there, "You're my bro, Tommy. I love you."

"Of _course_ I do," Tommy smiled a melancholy smile, "I love your chicken wings, and your pork chop thighs and your marshmallow tummy and your chipmunk cheeks. I love you best of all, porkchop, and nothing's going to change that."

"I love you best of all, too," Alfred promised, looking up, his eyes just a little teary.

"Don't you go crying on me now," Tommy cautioned, "Maybe we should get ice cream on the way home."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."

~====o)0(o====~

Walking into class with his twin brother on the first day of senior year caused a bit of a stir.

For starters, most of the class had been unaware that Tommy even existed. Secondly, Alfred and Thomas really were as different as night and day. Alfred was a little bit chunky, carefree and smiling, inherently book-smart; he had blond hair, blue eyes and glasses. Tommy didn't have a gram of spare flesh on him, watchful and snidely sneering, street-smart and thoroughly educated in the ways of the world, he had dark brown hair, red-brown eyes and a sleepy, thousand-yard stare.

"Hello, Alfred," Arthur, student body president not because he was ridiculously attractive or popular but because he could get the job done, greeted the twin he knew, "Who's this?"

"Yeah, porkchop," Tom grinned, the edge to his smile a little hostile, "Who _is_ this?"

"Tommy, this is Artie Kirkland. He's head of the student council. Artie, this is my twin brother, Tommy."

"Pork chop?" the Englishman asked with one formidable brow querulously raised. Alfred went red.

"Tommy's been my roommate since we were single-cell organisms. He gets special privileges," the blond American's smile was still sunny as Arizona in mid-June but it didn't reach his eyes. The brunet recognised those eyes. They were the same ones Alfred had always showed to bullies, only now that he was taller and more handsome and less round, people seemed to be sitting up and paying attention to the fact that he wasn't happy with them. This Arthur, for example, this arrogant son of a bitch with his neatly pressed uniform and his expression of cool disdain, ceded the battle of wits to Alfred and turned his attention to Tommy. To whom the distain was rather more obvious. Curling his lip, the English boy offered him a hand to shake,

"Tommy, is it? Charmed, I'm sure."

"Thomas to you, Artie. Porkchop here gets special privileges, too," his grip too hard on the other's hand to be at all friendly, even if the lazy smile in his half-lidded eyes could have been mistaken for kindness.

"It's Arthur, _actually_," the English boy said coolly, his grip equally firm.

"I _actually_ don't care," Tommy's smile stretched wolfishly across his face.

~====o)0(o====~

Tommy didn't really get on with his new class, per se, but he tolerated them because they were nice to Alfred, and they tolerated him because he was Alfred's brother. Alfred was Hetalia High's Mister Congeniality.

There were a few tense moments, but because Alfred had insisted that they take all the same classes, he was always there to pull his twin aside and remind him of his vow of pacifism. Just for a year. Ten months and then Tommy could do whatever he wanted. After the school production of Cats, of course.

"Cats," Tommy said, staring at the script, "Are you _kidding_? I am _not_ wearing a leotard."

"Tommy, you promised," Alfred's voice was sing-song as he tugged his brother down the corridor to the school auditorium, "Besides. It'll be fun!"

"The more you say that, the more I doubt you," the brunet grumbled, but still allowed himself to be shoved through the door and into the waiting front row.

Name after name came up to dance or sing. There was a slight kid – probably one of the only Freshman who was going to get a part – blond hair and big eyes who quietly mumbled something about dancing Magical Mr Mistoffelees. Much to the surprise of the audience, he managed to pull off the routine with aplomb, even if it was one of the most difficult in the musical.

"Tom Jones," the teacher in charge called out, closely followed by a magnified muttering of, "Smart ass."

Sighing, Tom gave Al a look that quite clearly told the blond that this was the last time he agreed to anything he suggested.

"That's me," he called loudly before the teacher could assume it was a fake name and move on to the next person. Without so much as a faltering step, he vaulted onto the stage and dusted himself off, making a vague effort to stand in the spotlight, he said, "Yeah, so, I'm Tom Jones and I'll be singing Leave The Bourbon On The Shelf." It had been Alfred's idea – just like everything else in this situation. Alfred's musical, Alfred's song, Alfred's friends playing accompaniment. But Tommy would pull down the moon and set fire to the whole world if that's what it took to make his porkchop happy. He would even prefer pulling down the moon and setting fire to the world to being a cat in a leotard.

The music started up, a buzzing electric guitar played rather well by a friend of a friend of Alfred's and a drum that was slightly off rhythm. The Reformatory choir had been better, but at least the song needed decent projection, and he was pretty sure he could do it better than the original.

There was some muted muttering in the back of the hall as he started to sing, eyes closed so he wouldn't have to see any of their smarmy faces, "Shakin' like the Devil when she lets me go Got a new place and how it's so much better, Falling over myself the television's on. I turn it off and smile~" breathing deeply, he pulled his voice up from somewhere in the pit of his stomach, pushing it out of his mouth, feeling the sound vibrate in his chest, his throat, his nose. By the time the chorus rolled around, his voice had swelled, filling every corner of the hall and the whispering was gone. He might as well have been in the shower for all the noise anyone else made.

The background music stopped and it was just him and his voice. Tommy's eyes were open now, and they sought his brother out, smiling a little tearily in the front row.

"Leave the bourbon on the shelf And I'll drink it by myself And I love you endlessly, Darling don't you see I'm not satisfied." Silence pounded on the brunet's eardrums until a frantic clapping began. Front row, there was Alfred, bringing his hands together like he was trying to bring Tinkerbell back to life. The rest of the hall followed suit, applauding until their hands went numb. A smirk pulled at Tommy's lips as he sauntered off stage and flopped back beside Alfred.

"I told you you could do it," the blond beamed at him, punching his arm.

"Never said I couldn't, porkchop."

~====o)0(o====~

"Who's the vulture in the wings?" Tommy drawled, leaning against a pile of tires that was being used as a prop while Matthew stretched. Seeing as how Tommy sang the song for Matthew's dance, it was best that they practise together whenever possible. And every time they practised there was a tall, dark figure lurking in the shadows, watching.

"Hmmm?" Matthew was very soft spoken. He was the only Freshman in a title role and the character suited him down to the ground; shy and a little nervous but capable of fantastic feats when pressed, "Oh, that's my cousin, Matt. He's a senior, like you. Heard you were in juvie and wanted to make sure I was safe."

"Well, he didn't hear wrong," the American muttered between humming bars of My Fair Lady, "Why do you two have the same name? That's weird."

"Not the same, exactly," Matthew answered quietly, sinking into the splits, "I'm Matthew Williams, he's Matthieu Bonnefois. But I wouldn't call him that. He doesn't like it. He's just Matt."

Tommy just snorted, his eyes fixed on the dark gargoyle just beyond his line of vision, "Still kind of weird. What's also weird is how cool you are with my time in the slammer. Assault, in case you were wondering."

"Matt did a year for aggravated assault in Vancouver when he was fifteen. Plus if you go for me, he'll break you in half. Anger management problems, y'know?" somehow the kid managed to shrug and touch his toes at the same time, which hardly seemed plausible. Tommy smirked,

"Yeah, I know. Now are you ready, twinkle toes? I haven't got all day."

Two hours later, Matthew was in the shower and Tommy had collapsed into the cheap velour seating beside the glowering Matt.

"So I hear us two are birds of a feather," he said, stretching his legs out to rest on the seat in front of his.

"Not even vaguely," Matt's voice was a surprisingly mild tenor. A little husky with lack of use, perhaps, but nowhere near the Deep Throat –like growl Tommy had been expecting.

"I think you might be wrong, there, bro," the American smirked, sinking down until he was on a level with his companion, "You see, while little Mattie's been twirling around down there – and man, can he twirl – I have been watching you, my stoic friend. I can't see much from down there, but I'd have to be fucking blind to not see what _you're_ looking at."

"_Your point_?" the Canadian snarled out, turning to look at Tommy for the first time; bloody murder in his eyes.

"Easy there, tiger," the brunet laughed, "I'm not going to hoist you on your own petard. All I'm saying is that it takes one to know one."

Matt's expression didn't change.

"Jeez, man, you need to relax. Cut out red meat. Do some yoga. Meditate a little," he paused, "You need a bong the size of a fridge."

"Let's make this clear, _Tommy_," Matt said slowly, "You keep your filthy hands off of my cousin, or I will snap you into so many pieces that not even your do-gooder brother will be able to put you back together again."

"Why would I want to lay hands on your toothpick little cousin?" Tommy snorted, folding his hands behind his head, watching with hooded eyes as Matthew and Alfred wandered out of the changing rooms together.

"Sorry, dude, I _legit_ didn't see you," Alfred apologised, looking guiltily at the red-faced Matthew, "I was just checking for Tommy."

"It's fine, Al, I was dressed already," Matthew laughed softly, still obviously embarrassed. Matt was already halfway across the balcony before Tommy caught up with him.

"Whoa, tiger. Calm down a second. I wouldn't let porkchop touch a hair on little Mattie's head, I swear. Just look at them, they're getting to be friends," for a split second after he grabbed Matt's shoulder, the America had been sure that he was going to lose an arm, "It's _cute_."

Pausing to look at the two blond's nattering away; the transfixed Canadian's answer was barely a breath;

"Adorable."

"Sweet."

"Darling."

"Diabetes-inducing."

"It's unjustifiable."

"Inexpiable."

"Unpardonable."

"Inexcusable."

"I won't tolerate this."

"And neither will I. We are," Tommy's smile was that of a shark with a seal in its sights as he looked at Alfred, "In complete agreement."

"Oh, hey, there they are! Tommy! I've been looking all over for you!" the blond twin called out waving at them. His brother's smile widened enormously, showing the gap where he'd lost a tooth, hooded eyes looking fondly at his other half.

"Sorry, porkchop. Matt and me were just bonding over juvie butt-rape experiences," the brunet laughed, watching the other two's eyes widen in horror.

"Tommy, what did they do to you?" Alfred demanded, loud as he was, he didn't drown out Matthew's whisper of,

"M-Matt?" the Freshman's doe-eyes stared soulfully up at his cousin, lower lip quivering.

"You shitbag, Jones," Matt's backhand slap made an impressively loud smacking sound as it collided with Tommy's bicep, "Why would you say something like that? There was no butt-rape, Mattie, I promise."

The darker twin was a breath from pulling back his fist and letting fly when Alfred's voice cracked through his consciousness.

"Tommy. Let's go home, okay?" The words that echoed in every syllable were, 'You swore to me you wouldn't fight this year,' and they only just stopped him starting a brawl.

"Yeah," Matt agreed, his scowl softening as he looked at Matthew, "That was a great practise, chickadee, but I promised Aunt Madeline I'd have you home half an hour ago."

"_Chickadee_?" Alfred asked, perplexed, and Matt flushed red.

"_Porkchop_," Mattie accused flippantly, pulling his cousin down the last few steps and out the door, "Come on. Mom won't mind if we're late, but Auntie Marianne is going to _gut_ us."

"He has a point," Tommy sighed, "Mom's gonna beat us with a spoon."

~====o)0(o====~

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this. I look like a gay lion with an S&M fetish," Tommy complained, twisting in his black leotard and leopard-fur ruff.

"I don't know," Alfred's eyes wandered distractedly over the costume, from the studded leather collar, over the fur extremities to the silver-spangled belt and it's faux-fur tail attachment, "I think it looks good on you."

"Porkchop, you're staring at my dick," the brunet raised an eyebrow.

"I am doing no such thing!" the blond's face burned with a mortified red.

"You are. You're staring at my crotch," Alfred looked away, and Tommy's tongue peaked out to flick over his lip ring, "I mean, jeez," he drawled, eyes burning on his brother's skin, "If my own twin can't keep his eyes off my John Thomas, then all the repressed housewives in the audience don't stand a chance."

"Yeah," the blond brother gulped, his brow furrowed, looking slightly sick, "Yeah. Look, Tommy, I'm going to go get a drink. You want anything?"

"Nah. Thanks, porkchop."

~====o)0(o====~

"Your little Mattie knows, doesn't he?" Tom said, lidded eyes watching the sound and lighting tests that were going on below them. They weren't friends, as such. It was just that neither of them were allowed to punch the other on school property.

Matt didn't say anything, but the American glanced back over his shoulder and watched the Canadian's lips press together and he didn't need him to.

"Every time he gets up on the big ole stage he's teasing you. Putting on a nice little show for you," he laughed, eyes narrowing in on Alfred as he walked in, looked around and made a bee-line for Mattie, "But you're not giving him what he wants, are you? Bad, bad incestuous freak!" Tommy chuckled.

"He's _fourteen_, you shithead," Matt snarled, "He doesn't understand."

"You're awful sanctimonious for a guy who wants to fuck a blood relation through the mattress. I wonder if he'd get loud for you or if he'd just whimper and silently beg for your cock with his big, doe eyes? "

"_Tommy_?"

Alfred and Matthew were standing right behind them.

"Speak of the Devil and the Devil shall appear!" the brunet twin said, beaming, "Will that be two ice creams or should I put the money in the swear jar?"

"I am _so_ sorry about that," Alfred spoke through gritted teeth, completely ignoring his brother's words, opting instead to grab him by the arm and haul him away to the other side of the balcony, "What the _hell_ were you thinking?" he hissed once they were out of earshot.

"That maybe you didn't hear as much of that conversation as I thought you did and that that dude has a seriously unhealthy attachment to his cousin?" Tommy tried, smiling in a way that told Alfred he was being a little dense.

"Jesus Christ Almighty," the blond raised his eyes to the ceiling, "Give me strength. Tommy, Matt is _dangerous_. He beat his father almost to death with a hockey stick when he was fifteen. The rumour is that his dad was beating on him first, so he only got a year, but all the same. Don't provoke him. I like you alive. And another thing, Mattie was really badly bullied at his old school. I mean really, really badly. He wouldn't give me any details, but it didn't sound pretty. So Matt had every right to be worried about him. He's probably just looking out for his family. The same way you or I would do."

"Porkchop," Tommy said slowly, rolling the words around him mouth before he spoke them, "Matt's just a big pussy cat. Besides, like me, he's under strict orders not to start shit."

"_Tommy_," Alfred cautioned.

"Jesus fucking Christ, porkchop!"

"You owe me _so_ much ice cream for that."

~====o)0(o====~

"No, no, _no_!" The teacher in charge yelled, and the band skidded to a stop with a sound like a wounded accordion, "You have one line, Misto. _One line_! The play is in three days! If you weren't the only one who could do this dance, I would have you off the cast list before the day is done."

Matthew hung his head, greasepaint whiskers seeming to droop as he did so. He mumbled something that might have been, 'I'm sorry, sir,' but no one could hear him say it. He just wasn't cut out for theatre.

Silent as the grim reaper and just as scary, Matt drifted out of the wings to stand beside his cousin, putting one hand on Mattie's shaking shoulder. Drawing breath, he glanced disparagingly at Tommy in his cat suit and drawled loud enough for the entire hall to hear, "The Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible _bore_."

The younger Canadian jerked in surprise, his head snapping up to look confusedly at Matt, the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

"Mister Bonnefois," the teacher said stiffly, and a muscle in the elder Canadian's jaw visibly twitched, "What is the point of this exercise?"

"Mattie is the best dancer in this stupid production. Let me say the line for him," Matt shrugged, shoving the hand that wasn't on Mattie's shoulder into the pocket of his ratty jeans.

"You do have the right projection…" the man pursed his lips, turning around and marching back off stage, "Fine. You can say the line, but stay out of sight and don't mess up!"

Breathing a sigh of relief, the youngest member of the cast hugged his cousin, breathing 'Thank you' into his shirt.

"You see?" Alfred remarked to Tommy as they strolled down the corridor and into sweet freedom, "Matt's just looking out for Mattie. They're going to have to work hard on that lip synch, though. Especially with Matt not being able to see when Mattie's talking."

"We see very different things, porkchop," Tommy sighed, flipping a dowel rod between his hands like a cheerleader's baton.

"Apparently," Alfred's sigh was a touch mournful.

~====o)0(o====~

"Mattie!" Alfred called, finding the other alone and not shadowed by the ever intimidating and seemingly ever-present Matt.

"Oh, hi, Al," the Canadian gave a little wave, smiling, "Where's your other half?"

Usually – or so Alfred had heard from other twins – the assumption that both parties did everything together was thought of as rude or ignorant. But it was just the truth. Alfred and Tommy did and had done everything together since they came out of the womb, Tommy two minutes before Alfred. Their mother joked that Tommy had been checking to see if the coast was clear.

"Ditched him," the Senior said nervously. Usually, Alfred didn't associate much with the lower grades, but Matthew was in the same play as his brother, and if Tommy was right – as he so often was – then Mattie might be able to help him with his problem.

"Why," the little Canadian seemed so concerned, "Did you two fight?"

"No," Alfred dragged the word out, "It's nothing like that, I just wanted to talk to you alone. I… I have a problem, and I think that maybe you might be able to help me with it."

"No promises, Al," Mattie cautioned, "But I promise I'll help you as much as I can."

"Okay, and you have to swear to me that you won't tell anyone. Please. Swear on something important, because this really isn't something I want or need getting out, please?" The look on Alfred's face was so uncharacteristically sober that Mattie nodded.

"I swear on the life of Matthieu Bonnefois that I won't tell a soul," he promised, hand over his heart.

Blinking, slightly surprised by Matthew's choice of special something, Alfred nodded, "Right. Um. How would you describe your relationship with Matt?"

The slightest frown creased between Mattie's eyebrows and his eyes – an odd shade of purple that seemed to run in the family if Matt was anything to go by – hardened, "How do you mean?"

"You two seem really close. Closer than is normal for cousins. You two kind of look like there's something more between you, what with the way you act," the words came out in a rush, as often happened when Alfred was nervous or excited.

"Is it that obvious?" Mattie breathed, eyes wide and face drawn, any colour he possessed draining away.

"No, not really. Didn't notice at all. Tommy's the one who saw it. It doesn't look like he's watching, but he is," the American boy put on his best reassuring smile, "But that's not really the point of this. So, you and Matt are a thing?"

"Kind of figured that. I wish he'd been nicer to Matt, though. He tries so hard to be good. We're sort of a thing," Mattie put on a careful grin, still a little wary, "I want to be with him, but he says I'm, too young. Him being nineteen and me being fourteen. I love him though. I know I do. It's legal in this state," the younger boy's tone was challenging, "Sometimes he says we can kiss. He always smiles when we do, so I know he likes me back."

"I can kind of see his point," though the concepts of 'Matt' and 'Smiling' were just not gelling in his mind, "But he must like you back a whole lot if he smiles when you kiss." Oddly enough, Alfred could see them together and they did make a sweet couple, if mismatched in all the strangest ways and matched in all the worst ones.

"I really think he does," Mattie flushed a little, his whole face lighting up as he spoke about his cousin. It must have been a relief, Alfred thought, to finally have someone to talk about it with, "He's just trying to protect me, I know. But you didn't want to talk about me, did you?"

"Well, I kind of wanted to know what your standing on incest was before I chew your ear off," a nervous laugh punctuated the silence, "So, uh, you're okay with it?"

"That's pretty obvious, Alfred," Matthew smiled comfortingly, "So, what's up? _Jonesing_ for an apple on the family tree?"

"Yeah," the blond American said, eyes dancing around the room and laughing half-heartedly at the joke, "You could say that. But it's not the same situation as yours. So…Let's say I've been having dreams about this member of my family. I know I love them, of course I do. But it's a sin. And I don't know what to do, because if I do love them the way I think I might do, they won't love me back."

"How is it sin if you love them?" Mattie immediately shot back, scowling.

"This is not like you and Matt, dude. You two aren't actually against the law, just frowned on. Liking who I do is not only immoral, it's also illegal," Alfred sighed, his shoulders slumping, "I wish it wasn't, but if God wanted us to be together then I guess He would have not made us related."

Matthew nodded slowly, taking the information in; "Would you mind me asking who it-" he began quietly, before a loud voice cut him off.

"I've been looking _everywhere_ for you!" Tommy yelled as he stuck his head through the open classroom door, "What's up, porkchop?"

"Nothing, Tommy, just talking," Alfred gave his best smile and Matthew took a moment to think how it must look; the two of them whispering with their heads together over a lab table. And then he took a moment to think about what Alfred had said. It was illegal, so it had to be a member of his immediate family. Someone he loved dearly. Someone he couldn't talk about in front of Tommy. It could have been one of his parents, but somehow that didn't seem likely. Neither Alfred or Tom ever seemed to give their parents much thought. In the immortal words of one Thomas Roosevelt Jones, 'They're kinda just the people I live with, you know?'

Adding to that the way Alfred had completely blown off his brother's question and Matthew was almost positive that it was Tommy.

The brunet twin frowned, slumping down beside them, his expression hard, "What about?"

"Alfred was just asking about Matt and me," Matthew said quietly, "Gig's up. I love him."

Tommy's scowl didn't budge by an iota, "So now you need to fact-check everything I say?"

"It was just a little far-fetched, no offence, Mattie, but this kind of thing doesn't happen every day," Alfred turned to his brother, "You know you're a little bit tactless, bro."

"Actually, I'm sure this happens more often than people let on," Matthew whispered so softly that neither of the Joneses were sure he said it. Choosing to ignore the Canadian, Tommy focused on Alfred.

"That's rich coming from you, porkchop; you're as tactful as a dentist's drill without any novocaine. Whatever. You two can braid each other's hair now. I'm out," shooting the pair of them a dark look, Tommy slouched out the door.

"Wait, Tommy, where are you going?" Alfred called after him, hand automatically reaching out for his brother.

"Oh," the other twin put on his nastiest smile, the one he had never directed at Alfred before, "I don't know, porky. You'll just have to come find me." He glanced down for a moment, smile slipping before he merged back into the teeming throng of teenagers in the hallway.

Matthew stared at the door, and gave Alfred's arm a little push, "Go on, go after him!"

The blond American was gaping at the doorway his brother had left through, hurt evident on his face. Matthew shook his arm, repeating his encouragement, "Go after him!"

"No!" Alfred shook his head so hard that his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose and onto the cool granite countertop, "No. I know his lines, he knows mine; he just crossed one. Thomas can hitch a ride with someone else until he apologises." Carefully picking up his specs and cleaning them off on the hem of his shirt, he put them back on.

"Wait, what did he do?" Mattie asked, completely bewildered.

"Something he should know better than to do."

~====o)0(o====~

"Can you turn off the damn light?" Tommy glared, "This stupid play was your idea and I need some sleep."

"Sorry, Tom," Alfred muttered, not looking up from the tome in his lap, "I have a test tomorrow. Advanced Trig doesn't learn itself."

"Christ, porky-" The book that had been open across the blond brother's thighs fell to the floor with an almighty _whump_.

"Don't," he glared at his twin, "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" Tommy drawled, eyes narrowing, "That's what you are, isn't it? Porky. Pudgy. Piggy. Chunky. Chubby. I bet your new friends don't care, do they? They think you're a lovely human being. You're a body bag full of ice cream and Twinkies."

Alfred threw himself at Tommy, pinning him to the bed. The first time his fist collided with the brunet's jaw, neither of them seemed to be able to believe it. Tommy stared with wide eyes up at Alfred, who looked at the red mark he had left and did it again.

A grunt of air left the darker twin's lungs with every blow. They weren't hard punches by any means, but they still hurt. He didn't fight back, letting Alfred land hit after hit, steadily losing power until the blond was slumped over him, his face pressed into the crook of Tommy's neck, his breath hot against his skin.

"Aren't you supposed to love me best of all?" Alfred whispered.

Tommy didn't answer.

~====o)0(o====~

The Jones family – excluding Tommy – sat front row for the opening performance. The stage was in turns brightly lit and shadowed in darkness. Hetalia high had its fair share of good voices. Arthur, for example, had landed the exalted title of Munkustrap. Natalya had gotten Griddlebone while her brother played Macavity. Even Berwald, the Swedish exchange student, surprised everyone by landing the part of Old Deuteronomy. His elocution lessons must have been paying off.

But no one lit up the stage the way Tommy did. Even when the hall was full to bursting with parents excited to see the Vargas twins tumble and Erzsé make her debut as Grizabella, it was Tommy's voice that filled the hall, who made the audience rise to their feet. And in combination with little Mattie and his fancy footwork, they brought the house down.

It was easy to tell where Matt was, because every time Mattie returned to his post on the collection of garbage that was being used as a backdrop, his smile widened considerably, and Alfred (because he was looking for it) saw one pale hand grasp another through a worn out tyre. They pulled off Mattie's lines spectacularly. If the blond American hadn't known what they were up to, he never would have guessed.

Alfred and Tommy had hardly spoken since the night before. It was a little unnerving to those who knew them, but most just assumed that Tommy was nervous. It had to be the musical, because he wouldn't stop complaining about it.

"Who's dumbass idea was it to shove me into this fucking cat suit. I can't believe I have to do that dance. Seriously. Short of being born this s going to be the singularly most traumatic experience of my young life."

Alfred sat quietly through all of this, his eyes averted. But once they were in the hall, he couldn't stop watching. Tommy was alive on stage, electrified and larger than life. For all his protestations and moaning, he really looked like he was getting into it. He goofed about, he laughed, he danced, he sang and he made stupid faces at the audience. All while wiggling his hips in a manner that would put Elvis Presley to shame.

And the glow of the stage followed him home. Tommy was excited, he bounced in his seat, and he laughed and joked the whole way back to their shared bedroom, congratulations still ringing in his ears.

They still hadn't said a word to each other. And they didn't, all the way through pyjamas and toothpaste rabies and turning out the lights. It was late. The room was dark but for the muted gold light of a streetlamp dripping in honeyed strings through the window between them.

"Night, Tommy," Alfred whispered into the half-light and a too warm hand came down on his shoulder, turning him around.

"Porkchop," the brunet's voice was breathy, fervent, a little hoarse. They were too close, Alfred's mind registered belatedly. He could feel every gust of air from parted lips, he could see Tommy's eyes in a shaft of light. They looked red. They closed.

Tommy's lip ring – the first part of the brunet's regular attire that got replaced when he shed his cat suit – nudged at Alfred's lips, coaxing them to open. It was cold, which was a shock. Maybe that's what prompted the blond to give in and kiss back. Maybe it was what prompted him to pull back with a gasp a minute later, an acute sense of loss lancing through his chest.

"Tommy-?" he whispered, but his twin was still too, too close, arms wrapped around Alfred like a thicket of brambles. Every nerve in his body prickled and stung as through there was a thorn pressed to each one. His heart beat too fast and his head swam.

"You're my porkchop, okay? You're my brother. You're mine. You can't go around with Matthew any more. You don't need him, okay? I love you best of all, Alfred. You have me. So don't shut me out, porkchop. You have me. You don't need him. I love your chicken wings, and your pork chop thighs and your marshmallow tummy and your chipmunk cheeks. I love you," Tommy nuzzled into him, lips pressing damply to his neck and making his heart thump erratically, "I love you best of all. No one can love you the way I do, and that's okay, because you have me."

Alfred wriggled. He wriggled and he shoved until Tommy's grip broke, and they stood facing each other like a Mexican stand-off, only Mexican stand offs usually didn't happen between brothers in the dead of night after the opening of the school musical.

Their heavy breathing was loud in the elongated silence, and Alfred shook his head, trembling all over as he gathered up his bedclothes and opened the door. It took him a minute to get the handle to work, and it took him more than that to remember how to walk down a flight of stairs. But once he had, the blond twin made a bee-line for the couch and settled down there, not bothering to answer to stage-whisper calls of his name.

~====o)0(o====~

Alfred didn't go to school the next day. He didn't malinger at home, or tell his parents he was sick. He didn't even tell Tommy, though given their state of wordlessness, that was hardly surprising.

He went to church.

All throughout his high school career, through elementary school and through every other event in his young life. Through Tommy's trip to the Reformatory, through the school play, through tests and exams, or whatever other traumas teenage life saw fit to bestow upon him, he had prayed.

And that was what he did then. He left Tommy asleep and drove over to his church, where he proceeded to spend the rest of the day on his knees, a rosary clutched in his trembling hands. He had started shaking when their kiss broke and hadn't stopped since.

His lips formed words, but no sound came out. Tears dripped down his cheeks and he wished that Tommy was there to make it better. And then he cried harder, tears rolling down his round cheeks and onto the floor. When the father had laid a hand on his shoulder and asked him if he needed someone to talk to, he shook his head violently, eyes still clamped shut, mouth still forming silent pleas for forgiveness.

By four in the afternoon, his legs were numb and he was whispering to himself in the empty hall, his words too soft to echo.

"Dear God, please forgive me, I know it was wrong. I'm so, so sorry. But I couldn't help it. It's so wrong, but I love him so much, I want him so much. I'm so sorry. I love him, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I love him. I love him. I know it's wrong, and I deserve to be struck down for my sins, but if you could find it in Your mercy to forgive him for wanting me, too. He's been so good to me, Lord, he doesn't deserve any more punishment. Sometimes I think You sent him just to test me, or maybe it was the other way around, but please lord, don't forsake him on my account. His voice is Heavenly; it has to be Your work. I know he has a higher purpose on this earth, if only he could see it. Please, Lord, punish me for this sin, spare my brother. Please."

A fresh tide of tears swept his cheeks and damped his quivering lips. A too warm hand descended on his shoulder and Alfred looked up, eyes wide and red-rimmed, afraid of seeing a priest behind him when he didn't want anyone to overhear him.

"You're going to miss the show," Tommy said, his hooded gaze subdued. There was something sad in his eyes, something perhaps a little bit regretful. Alfred wanted to say something, too, but words froze in his throat and wouldn't come, "You've already brought your ticket. It'd be a waste. And I want you to be there."

Dumbly, Alfred nodded and took the hand that was offered him. His legs were completely numb from the knee down, and he staggered, trying to find his footing. The hot circle of Tommy's arms enfolded him and he pushed away, falling back against the hard wood of the pews.

"I can stand on my own," he croaked. Tommy just shook his head.

"Sometimes you need a hand, porkchop," the brunet tried to smile, but it fell flat.

"Don't call me that," the words weren't angry, they weren't even sad, in fact, if it weren't his brother, Tommy would have said they were pathetic.

"Okay, Al," If Tommy was being honest with himself, he sounded pathetic, too.

~====o)0(o====~

The rest of the year passed in much the same manner as those three days, as though there was an endless loop. Alfred and Tommy barely ever said more than a sentence to each other if they could absolutely help it, even though they still shared a room. They were both miserable, it was quite plain to see.

Tommy got into drama academy on the East coast; very prestigious, and with a scholarship, too. Alfred was so proud of him he could have cried, but he didn't say a word.

Alfred went west, doubling up in political science and physics in Washington. Tommy wanted to say more than, 'gratz, bro,' but anything more refused to force its way through his lips.

Tommy did exceptionally well, and had a Broadway show under his belt by the time he was in second year, but personally, he didn't do fantastically. He had always been a picky eater – a vegan since age six – and he had never weighed much, but he wasted away in the big city, throwing himself into work, determined not let Alfred down, even if his brother no longer cared. He would make up for all the years he had spent hurting him.

Alfred, as well, did very well in school. With nothing to do but work, he burnt the candle at both ends, achieving enough credits to land him on the Dean's golden list before the first semester was even done. Smiling and charismatic, he was accepted into political circles in as much time as it took for him to introduce himself to the assembled senators.

It was hard, though. Instead of going out with friends, Alfred worked. Instead of sleeping, he worked. Tommy was much the same. He had to soundproof his apartment because his neighbours had lodged complaints with management when he ran through his scales at three in the morning.

The only time they saw each other all throughout university was when their mother called them home for Christmas in Alfred's final year.

Dinner was a tense affair. Their parent's attempts to incite conversation fell flat between them. Alfred looked away from his mother's despairing expression, and Tommy just kept his head down, staring at his peas as he shifted them listlessly about his plate.

"Why don't you boys take your clothes down to the dryer for me?" She said when everyone was done eating, smiling wanly over steepled fingertips, "It's been a while since I did the laundry on this scale."

"Mom, we're grown men," the blond said gently, "You don't need to-"

"Alfred Jones, I saw the pile of washing you brought with you. Go take it through to the laundry room this instant. You too, Thomas." They may have been twenty-three, but they still obeyed.

Wordlessly, they walked step in step to their (cruelly, still shared, not that either of them lived there any more) picked up their dirty clothes and made their way down to the laundry room. It was a small, white-washed room that was something akin to a basement. The theory was that it had, in bygone years, been a wine cellar. It certainly did have the lingering fragrance of fermenting grapes about it, but could just have been the damp, earth walls that left sourness in the air. Either way, it was a fitting backdrop to the twins' silent relationship.

Down three, iron-grey slate steps and across the equally grey, equally slated floor to the washing basket to sort whites from colours – just like before they had moved out. It was the kind of work that leant itself to mindless chatter, but neither said a word. Four years on uncomfortable silence buzzed between them like static snow.

"Good boys," their mother smiled from the doorway, the lines on her face more evident than they ever had been, "Now, you two are going to stay in here until you've sorted out whatever problem you have. I can't take much more of this from either of you." And with that, the heavy oak door creaked shut, followed by the ominous groaning of the deadbolt and the metallic chink of the lock.

"I hate it when she does that," Tommy muttered sullenly, hurling one of a thousand white tee shirts into its designated pile of brethren.

"Does what?" Alfred sighed, not so much folding his blue dress shirt as rolling it around his forearm.

"Pokes her nose into other people's business. If you wanted to talk to me, you would have. It's not like my number's changed," another shirt landed in the basket.

"I figured you wouldn't want to talk to me," the thing that jerked at the blond's face was supposed to be a smile, but it seemed more like a muscle spasm than anything else.

"I thought you hated me. Why wouldn't I want to talk to you, porkchop?" Tommy's voice was subdued, and the old nickname fell like an atom bomb between them, leaving them shaken in the wake of nostalgia.

It felt as though that single childish nickname was trying to bridge four years of nothing, and almost spanning the gap.

"I… I rejected you. Why would you?" Alfred blinked, frown lines making themselves evident.

"I'm your brother and I kissed you. I thought that was reason enough. But if you're asking why I want to talk to you, the answer is simple enough. Because I love you best of all," the brunet's answer was firm and steadfast. There was no doubt in his tone as his chin thrust forward stubbornly.

The other twin bit his lip, looking away, at the white-washed stone walls, at the washing machine they were sorting their socks into, at the tumble dryer that came next. Anywhere, anywhere at all that wasn't Tommy, "I love you best of all, too."

"Really, Alfred, I _really_ love you. No one loves you like I do," Tommy whispered, eyes too bright, voice too fervent. Almost pleading but not quite. Wanting in a way that made Alfred want to give up, accept and live in sin.

"I know! I know you do!" Alfred was leaning back now, eyes tracing round the room for some kind of exit, though he knew none existed, "I love you, too, Tommy. I really, really do. But we're brothers. Blood brothers, hell, we're twins. This is so wrong that it doesn't even register on the scale. This is _incest_. This – us – we would be so messed up. Can't you see?"

"We're fraternal twins, not identical, it's not like it would be that creepy, besides," Thomas' face was belligerently stubborn, "What if I _want_ to be fucked up? You're _my_ porkchop." He paused a moment, watching the pained expression on Alfred's face, "You _are_ mine, aren't you?"

"I don't understand how you think I could be anyone else's. But we're brothers, Tommy. _Brothers_. This is wrong. It's sin. It's so many sins that I'm not sure if I can count them," blond hair tickled Alfred's cheeks as he shook his head, "I want this. I do. I lie awake at night thinking about you. But we can't. It's unnatural."

"You are the only thing on my mind. Unnatural be damned! I love you," Tommy insisted, scowling.

"Tommy, _please_-" Alfred was begging, and that hurt. The brunet bridled, his expression buckling.

"Tell me you don't want me," he demanded.

"What? Please-"

"Tell me you don't want me, Alfred, and we never have to have this conversation again. We can go back to being brothers." Tommy's voice was steady, his hands were still, his shoulders were straight and chin was shoved out defiantly, but his eyes were too bright in the light of the single, bare bulb.

"I-" By contrast, Alfred's posture folded like wet paper, "I can't. I can't do that Tommy. I love you. But-"

"If you love me, what more do you need? Your God does everything for a reason, doesn't he? Maybe he didn't trust me to find you. Maybe he didn't think you'd find me. So he slapped us together from birth. Maybe he figured out that I can't be without you. Just put me out of my fucking misery, because I can't deal with this," Alfred felt like the worst kind of person. He could choose Tommy and be happy in this life, or not choose him, which would probably drive him into an early grave.

"Tommy…"

"Please, porkchop. Don't shut me out?" Alfred had never been the kind of man who wanted to see another beg.

"_Tommy_." The blond twin's hands moved without his consent, stroking the too-hot skin of his brother's neck. Blue eyes darted from lip-ring to red-brown, "I don't want you to go to hell."

"For _fuck's_ - I'm _already_ going to hell; I might as well do it properly," Tommy muttered, their faces about an inch apart.

"Damned if I do, damned if I don't," Alfred sighed, his fingers curling into mahogany dark hair, leaning in until their lips met. The lukewarm metal of Tommy's lip ring pressed into Alfred's skin, prying his lips open as it had done years before in the dead of night. The blond wondered idly if maybe he didn't have a thing for piercings. He thought about that until their tongues touched, and then he thought no more.

~====o)0(o====~

And that was how it came to be that, another three years later; Alfred was on his knees in a church, saying the same prayer that he always did; he prayed for peace, he prayed that good people would be relieved of their suffering. He prayed that he would be able to help those in need. He prayed for himself, a little guiltily, that he would get into the senate, so that he could help more people. And finally, the last part of his prayer he always said aloud, just to lend it a little extra weight,

"God bless America, and God bless Tommy. Please, Lord, punish me, not him. Amen."

A hand came to rest on Alfred's shoulder, it was warm and brown, and it gave him a little squeeze before falling slowly away.

"Real bucket of sunshine aintcha, porkchop?" Tommy drawled, looking up at the crucified Christ before them. The statue was probably three metres tall, made of dark wood, and well kept. Cheerfully, the dark twin offered Jesus a mock salute, "Sorry big guy, but it's my turn now. I'm going to do wicked, sinful things to him all night, and then you can absolve him in the morning. Do we have a deal?"

There was a silence in which Alfred wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or punch his brother in the kneecap. Tommy nodded, as though he had heard something.

"Jesus says we can fuck," a hand slapped his thigh.

"_Tommy_!" Tommy rolled his eyes.

"I'm twenty-seven years old, porkchop, I'm not going to buy you ice cream just because I said fuck in church," the darker twin's trademark sleepy smile made Alfred's heart throb in his chest.

"Will you stop _doing_ that?" the blond demanded, allowing his brother to help him to his feet and lead him out of the doors and away from holy ground back, to their apartment.

Tommy had long since ceased to be put off or out by Alfred's instance that what they were doing was wrong. Instead, he just tried to make him forget as often as possible. Failing that, he liked to remind his brother of exactly how sweet sin could be.

"I love your chipmunk cheeks," he chuckled in the safety of their bedroom, peppering Alfred's face with kisses.

"I love your chicken wings," he grunted as they wrestled out of their clothes, leaning across to drag his teeth along the soft inside of Alfred's upper arm.

"I love your marshmallow tummy," Tommy's lip ring trailed along his stomach, tongue dipping into the other twin's navel, a moan of appreciation resonating in his throat as Alfred's hands raked through dark hair.

"And your pork chop thighs," he muttered smugly, sucking hard on the softest skin he could find, leaving a love mark no one else would see, but he would know it was there, and when they were all proper and ready for the parliamentary address tomorrow. Under Alfred's charcoal grey trousers, there would be a blooming, rose-red hickey.

Alfred looked down with hooded blue eyes, his own sleepy smile rivalling Tommy's. His hand rested against one flushed, chestnut cheek, caressing it.

"I love you best of all," the blond twin promised, leading his brother back up for a kiss. He was the eye of Tommy's bad boy, Broadway storm, and Tommy was his _everything_.


End file.
